


Hey Bartender

by IAmWhelmed



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Super Sons (Comics), Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angry Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom!Damian Wayne, College/University, Dom!Jonathan Samuel Kent, Drinking, Drunk Damian Wayne, Drunk Jonathan Samuel Kent, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Damian Wayne, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Rough Sex, Implied Sexual Content, Inappropriate Use of Furniture, Jealous Damian Wayne, Jealous Jonathan Samuel Kent, Jealousy, Jon may be a little OOC, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Protective Jonathan Samuel Kent, Sub!Damian Wayne, Top!Jonathan Samuel Kent, Underage Drinking, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:00:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25382746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmWhelmed/pseuds/IAmWhelmed
Summary: "What I'm really needing nowIs a double shot of CrownChase that disco ball around'Til I don't rememberGo until they cut me offWanna get a little lostIn the noise, in the lightsHey bartender pour 'em hot tonight'Til the party and the music and the truth collideBring it 'til his memory fades away..."-- Lady Antebellum, Hey BartenderAt a frat party, Damian finds Jon in a compromising position with a girl that leaves him reeling in pain. He sets out a couple of nights later to drink enough to forget, and finds company in a stranger. If Jon can do it, then he can too.
Relationships: Jonathan Kent/Damian Wayne
Comments: 24
Kudos: 264





	Hey Bartender

He didn’t really notice the sun at first; the headache came before he’d even opened his eyes. He’d never been hungover before, but he was sure this was what the movies always talked about. His whole body was sore, as if he’d spent the night on a grueling patrol at his father’s side rather than drinking at the bar. His ass, in particular, felt like it’d been split in two, and he could feel that his skin was covered in a thin sheet of sweat and… maybe something else. He was in a bed, that much was certain, but the blankets felt unfamiliar, nothing at all like the expensive sheets that decorated every bed at the manor. His stomach was quiet, still, but he knew it wouldn’t be once he bowed to the waking world and parted with the blissful world of dreams. Not that he’d actually had a dream. In fact, he couldn’t remember falling asleep at all. The last thing he remembered…

* * *

Jon didn’t love him. He’d known that, known it all along. It was stupid to get his hopes up. He could still see it in his mind’s eye, still see the house party, the wallpaper that was orange, the low lights, the kegs filled with beer. He could still hear the loud music, the bodies of girls and boys pressing the most intimate of places together as they danced and shared air and sucked the inhibitions right out of each other. Jon had gotten separated from him not even thirty minutes in, left Damian to wander around the damn frat house with a red solo cup full of water. He’d been pulled away by some guys from class, all two sheets to the wind and eager to send a third. Jon had reached back after Damian, of course, but only to shoot him an apologetic smile.

Right.

Because he was so sorry he’d left Damian alone at a party he’d dragged him to. He was so sorry that he’d disappeared, that Damian couldn’t find him for an hour. He was so sorry that, when Damian finally found him, he was in some frat boy’s bedroom with a half-naked girl, and that his hands were on her and her hand was--

He took a shot at the bar and hoped the image would go away, or at least the sounds. That was two nights ago and he could still hear Jon moaning and that wild-haired, blue-eyed girl gasping. He could still see his hands on her, and his innocent eyes glazed and bright against the red of his cheeks. He’d backed out of the room, but he wasn’t sure Jon hadn’t heard him leave. He’d all but flung himself out the front door and stomped a few neighborhoods away. He hadn’t wanted to stand around waiting for Pennyworth to come pick him up where Jon could have so easily found him. Jon wanted to sleep around with some stranger? Jon could ignore Damian to go make a bed rock for thirty minutes?

Well, if Jon could do it, then so could he. Damian signaled to the bartender that he wanted another shot, and the bartender smiled, because Damian was rich and a very good tipper, and poured him a double shot of crown. “On the house.” He tipped it back and felt the dark liquor burn, flare into his nostrils so he could pretend that his eyes didn’t burn  _ because Jon would never know about this, and he wouldn’t care if he did _ . He’d never know what it felt like to see somebody he loved with someone else between his legs, and he almost prayed that he was right, because it was a pain he wouldn’t wish even on Drake. His eyes could burn all they wanted, but he’d taste the rum way before he let himself taste the salt.

“You’re really making it rain, huh?”

Some guy took a seat next to him, flashing eyes and a sly smile. He was handsome, Damian had to admit, sharp chin, wild olive eyes, and he was certainly sitting closer than he was accustomed to in a stranger. Damian glanced him over, took in the leather of his jacket, the black of his boots, and decided that he’d rather like to pull on his neck-length hair. Damian shot him a smile. “I was expecting a few inches tonight.”

It was a stupid one-liner he’d heard somewhere, but it got him a laugh, and another drink.

He didn’t know his name. He wasn’t sure he cared. It’d gotten lost somewhere in the dirty things his eyes were whispering. He was in a band, that was cool. He pretended to not know who the Waynes were, and Damian let him because pretending to be someone else sounded so, so good. The way his hot stranger’s hand brushed the inner side of his knee felt so good. He kept buying drinks, and they kept tossing them back, and the fuzzier he felt, the more he wanted something in his mouth that wasn’t the cold rim of a glass. He leaned forward, and it was only because he had one hand on the counter that he didn’t topple over, and he grabbed at the sleeve of that leather jacket and imagined his nails on his tan skin. “We should go somewhere.” Blue eyes flashed by his mind, but he was too drunk to pay attention to the hurt. The Jon of his mind could watch while he gave himself to a complete stranger, and he could look like a hurt puppy all he wanted, but if he wanted to go around fucking girls, then Damian could get fucked right back.

The stumble to the second floor of the club was all fuzzy, something he hardly registered. Flashing pink, yellow, blue lights, people dancing, skirts so high there was no room for modesty. He could only feel the stranger’s warm hand in his, leading him to a back hall, to a dark place. They passed grinding bodies and giggling girls, and somewhere in his mind, he could hear Jon’s panting and her pleasured gasps, and he squeezed the leading hand.

Then he was up against a wall, and there was a tongue in his mouth and a hand between his legs, and he was humming and feeling the defined contours of skin under that leather jacket and green t-shirt. His first kiss, gone, just like that, and he almost felt sad. Then Jon’s glazed eyes flashed by and he told himself that Jon wouldn’t  _ care _ , that he needed to let this happen, that if he couldn’t have the man he loved, then he’d find something else in the hand stroking him. His mouth was at Damian’s throat, sucking, biting, licking, and his heart pounded as he threw his head back against the wall and tilted his chin up to give this stranger  _ more, more, more _ .

_ Jon… Jon…  _ “Ah, Jon…”

The hands that unsnatched the buttons of his collar didn’t stop, but the lips at the center of his chest laughed because they both knew that wasn’t his name. Damian let his hands wander from his shoulders to his hair, desperate to see if it felt as good as he thought it would to tug and pull, but then there was a crushing sound of metal.

His eyes, that he hadn’t realized he’d screwed shut, parted in a thick haze of dizzy drunkenness. Jon stood at an open door, one first against the metal with a sickening dip in the center. Wait, they were in a hall? Hold on, where exactly had they gone? Why was Jon here? His lusting, dazed eyes met Jon’s, lips parted in a shameful moan. “Get off of him!”

“Whoa, whoa, he asked, this is not whatcha’ think.” Despite what should have been an embarrassing position, on his knees with his eyes on level with the tent in Damian’s pants, the hot stranger who’d promised to whisk him away shot him an incredulous look. “You coulda told me you had a babysitter, ya know.”

But he didn’t. He’d come to the club alone, and he hadn’t even spoken to Jon since the fucking horrible frat party that Damian so desperately wanted to wipe from his memory. That was what was supposed to happen, here. This hot stranger with magic lips was supposed to make Damian forget all about that girl riding Jon like a mech bull, why was that not happening? “I said,  _ get off of him _ .”

The man on his knees was suddenly on all fours, wiping at his split lip and whining. “What the  _ fuck _ , how the shit does somebody like you throw a fuckin’ punch like that?”

“Damian, let’s go.”

The hand at his arm was suddenly more familiar, warm and not gaspingly hot. The tug was certain, like there was no question in his mind Damian would follow. He stumbled a few steps behind Jon’s retreating form, then tried to take back his forearm. It wasn’t effective in his non-particularly-sober state, enough that he wasn’t even sure it registered with Jon that he was struggling. “Let go.”

“What?” Jon whipped around, and it was only then that Damian realized they were already outside the club. The cold air of the streets hit his skin, but he refused to tremble. He stared Jon down and hoped that his glare was just as effective as it was when he was sober, at least as convincing. Jon blinked back at him with what he was pretty sure were puppy dog eyes, and they said that he was upset and emotional in all of his Jon Kent nature. Unlike normal, though, there was poorly concealed rage there, in the twitch of his eye, in the red sparks he saw between hues of blue. Jon’s hand was still at his wrist, but the other one was clenched at his side, wound so tightly that the skin looked white. “Damian, you  _ called  _ for me.”

“Did not.”

“Did too!” Once. He’d said his name once in a fit of passion, a temporary drunken setback where he kind of sort of pretended the man with his lips between his thighs was Jon. Maybe he’d said it more, but Jon didn’t know that, didn’t need to. “Damian, you’re drunk!”

“Good job pointing out the obvious, Kent.”

“It’s not funny, Damian! I just stopped you from making a huge mistake!”

“Why the hell do you care?”

“Because I’m your friend!”

“If that’s all we’re ever going to be, then leave me alone!” Jon’s eyes flashed with hurt again, and Damian tried to wrench his wrist out of his grasp, and was surprised when Jon only squeezed enough to hurt. He winced. “I was about to--!”

“Do something you’d regret in the morning.” Jon’s voice was low, dark, and the blue of his eyes had turned completely to red, flashing behind the frames of his glasses. There was a snarl to his lip he hadn’t seen before. True, it was unnerving, but dammit he was  _ hurt, _ his heart was  _ broken _ , and if he had to get under someone else to get over him, then he damn well would. The only thing to regret was the man who left the marks on his body, but if that would never be Jon anyway, then his partner wouldn’t be worth many regrets.

He tugged again and snarled right back, but Jon only twisted and jerked him closer. He hissed. “It’s not your business who ends up in my bed. I’m scavenging for some company and you are  _ not _ stopping me.”

* * *

That was, admittedly, the last thing he remembered. Apparently he’d made good on his promise, because he was bare under the sheets and covered in bite marks, and if he twisted his thighs, he could see handmarks painted in red and imprinted on his skin. His hands and nails smelled of shampoo, like spice and shea butter. A quick glance around the room told him he’d-- or the stranger he’d shacked up with-- had the sense to get a hotel room, one they were certainly going to be paying extra for. Between the torn pillows, the feathers that flitted about the room, the broken bed frame, and the indent in the wall from what he assumed was the aforementioned broken bed frame, he’d had an absolutely wild night. God help him if his brothers ever caught word of it. Part of him wondered if Jon had stuck around to keep an eye on him, if he’d tried to stop him again, and a spiteful, hurt, angry part of him hoped that Jon, with his super hearing, heard every damn bit of his night. He hoped he heard him scream, hoped he’d heard his heartbeat as he cried and twisted his fists in the sheets. He hoped Jon had heard him  _ beg _ , if he had, because then maybe, as his  _ friend _ , he’d feel a miniscule amount of what Damian had felt the moment he’d walked in on Jon with his hands all over some bimbo. He scoffed to himself.

Funny, the pain was still there.

“How much did you have last night, exactly?” Damian winced, blinking a few times before he realized the hands in front of him were offering toast and cola. He took them both, but grimaced.

“What are  _ you _ doing here?”

Jon blinked, looking all the world like a dog tilting its head. “You… don’t remember?”

“I remember telling you to get lost.” Damian scoffed. “Don’t tell me you stuck around just to see me make this mess.” He bit into the bread, and Jon glanced around the room with a raised brow. It was even worse than he originally thought, now that he was awake enough to see clearly. The outlines of paintings hung on the wall were empty, the floor had dents in the ground from where the legs of the bed frame had jolted over and over again. The television had somehow fallen off of the dresser and laid in a broken, shattered mess, leaving pieces of glass in the carpet. Damian shifted his weight, realizing that the pain in his rear end was growing worse the longer he sat directly on it. He’d chosen a damn  _ monster _ to lay with. His mother would be proud.

“So you… really don’t remember?”

“Not a thing, though I wish I could. Seems like my night ended on a… high note.”

Jon coughed into his hand, but Damian was sure it sounded almost like “It sure did…”

“You were wrong, by the way.” He swallowed the toast and tried not to pay attention to the difficulty he had swallowing. His throat was incredibly sore. “I don’t regret it.” No, he felt relaxed, even if his heart was still in pieces. At the very least, he’d done some stress relief, even if he’d had to throw away his body to do it. He was sore, and the slightest provocation at either front or back of his body begged for another round of… whatever he’d done last night… but the tension from the anger he’d kept for two solid days had faded away. Jon sat beside him on the bed, on hand scratching at the back of his neck.

“I’m happy to hear that.” He sounded genuine, and that hurt. He’d been right, of course, that Jon wouldn’t care if he was with somebody. His interruption last night had not stemmed from a place of jealousy, like some wriggling hope in his mind had him thinking. It was because he’d been drunk. Jon truly was just being a good friend.

“So, where’d my midnight companion wander off to?”

“H-Huh?”

“Unless you didn’t see him go? Did you fly all the way out here just to give me toast?”

Jon swallowed and gave him a strangled laugh. “D, did you… did it not occur to you that…”

“Nevermind. It doesn’t matter. He was a means to an end.” A meaningless one-night-stand meant to get his mind off of Jon. Who cares where the man went? Well, maybe a part of him was a little curious about just who managed to rock his world so thoroughly the night before, maybe even was hoping he’d get another round he could actually remember (his sensitive lower half hummed in agreement, and he shifted again to keep himself in control). But this stranger had been just that, a stranger, one who hadn’t managed to rid his heart of Jon no matter how many frames they knocked off the hotel room walls.

Jon’s lower lip jutted out, and his brows furrowed. His eyes read irritated. “You don’t even know who he was.”

“I don’t need to. He kept my mind off--”  _ you _ , was what he was going to say, but of course he couldn't say that. Not to Jon. “-- he did what I needed him to do, even if it was only temporary.” Damian cocked an eyebrow at him, teasing. “Was that girl not the same to you?”

“What? What girl?”

“Please, like you don’t remember.”

“Y-You mean from the house party--?”

“The girl who had her breasts in your hands? Excellent deductive work, Jonathan.”

Jon blinked, then glanced around the hotel room. The feathers on the floor, the broken glass, the mattress with a very clear broken spring. Damian sucked down the soda and squeezed the can instead of Jon’s neck. “Damian, you can’t be serious.” Jon sighed and ran a hand through his hair, hair that seemed much messier than usual, now that Damian could actually look at him. “That was as far as it got. I didn’t sleep with her.”

What? But… Damian sucked his teeth. “Lying is unbecoming, Kent.”

“I’m not lying! She was drunk! I was nervous and I kinda froze but, like, nothing else happened! I walked her back to her dorm!”

Damian grimaced. Because if nothing happened, if Jon wasn’t lying to him-- and he’d never lied to him before so it was likely this was the honest-to-god truth-- and what he’d seen was as far as things got? That meant he’d gone out and gotten drunk and passed his body out to a man he didn’t even know like expiring meat  _ for no reason _ . Then again, Jon’s reaction had been very telling. Once again, it wasn’t like Jon was jealous, he’d just been worried for him in a state of plaster, same as the girl he’d felt up in the frat house. Jon was his friend, and if that’s all they’d ever be, then it probably would have come to this anyway. He set his can on the nightstand and took a final bite of his toast, licking his lips and finding they tasted of the same sheen of sweat that covered his body.

“My point still stands. Whoever I was with last night… I didn’t know him, and he didn’t know me.” Except biblically. But that meant nothing.

He could feel Jon’s eyes on him, burning into the side of his head, right down to his bare shoulders, covered in bruises and bites. He tried to ignore him, because he knew he’d say something stupid if he looked.

To his surprise, there was a sudden hand at his lower back, and even more to his surprise, it didn’t stop there. Damian squeaked as Jon’s palm graced his hind end and gave a decisive squeeze. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, to tell Jon to knock it off, but in the next moment he was on his back, and Jon was above him with the glazed over eyes he’d tried so hard to forget. The embodiment of sunshine seemed to darken as he pinned Damian’s wrists to the bed. Instead of the crystal blue he’d seen in his mind’s eye, even under the influence of ten shots of crown, Jon was watching him with aegean blues, thick and dark with lust. One of his knees pressed up between the sheets, between Damian’s legs, almost pressing the last of his cover from his body to reveal what little else there was to hide. “Damian, did you think for even one second that the stranger in your bed was  _ me _ ?”

* * *

_ “You’re right, I’m not stopping you.” Jon twisted the hand at his wrist again, pulling him forward so suddenly that he couldn’t fight as their lips locked in a searing kiss. His tongue was in his mouth, so much more forceful than the stranger’s had been, so much hungrier, so demanding. He went limp in Jon’s arms, against his will, parted his lips and let Jon eat him alive because he couldn’t help himself. Jon’s other hand was at his hip, squeezing him with a bruising strength that felt right, that felt good, that would leave a mark. “If you want to spend your night face down, be my guest, I’m more than happy to provide.” _

* * *

And he’d made good on that promise, now that he could see Jon’s eyes above him, full of fire, anger, conviction. Things started to come back-- his fingers in Jon’s hair, pulling, his nails clawing at Jon’s back, his ankles wrapped around his hips. He could hear Jon’s voice, feel his tongue at his ear.

_ “Say my name. Let me hear you. C’mon, Boy Wonder, you can do better than that.” _

It all came flooding to his senses at once, the memory of Jon behind him, over him, against him, between his legs with his knees bent over his shoulders, their hands entwined in the sheets.

_ “Damian… say it, say you’re mine-- ah, say it. Tell me you’re mine.” _

_ “I’m yours! Jon! Oh~ oh please!” _

It was against his will that his entire body turned an unflattering shade of red. “Y-You… You and I… we…?”

A spark of innocent blue came back, and Jon’s cheeks turned a complimentary shade of pink. The true killer, though, was the embarrassed break in his voice, even if he still sounded  _ proud _ of himself. “ _ Until you literally couldn’t take anymore.” _

Oh god. Oh god, he slept with Jon. Oh god, they had sex. Jon was the man he’d been with all night, the same man who’d torn the mattress up, broken the spring, left all of those bruises and bite marks on the most intimate places his skin had to offer.  _ Jon  _ had done this to him-- innocent, sweet, good Superboy, who never cursed, who’s smile lit up ballrooms, who laughed at silly things and had put up with him since they were kids. That Jon had completely undone him in one night, taken complete control, dominated him and turned him to absolute uncontrolled putty. He’d known he was in love with him,  _ but to be that insanely good in bed? _ Kryptonians were ridiculous. His eye twitched. “Kent, get off of me.”

“That’s not what you were begging for last night~?”

“I-I-- I did  _ not _ \--!”

“ _ Ohh, Jon~ oh yes, please, oh right there! _ ”

“ _ Like this?” _

“ _ Oh, Jon, harder, oh yes, yes, yes! _ ”

The memory came unbidden, almost as if his mind was working against him specifically as payback for the absolute abuse he’d dealt last night. “ _ Kent, I am going to  _ kill  _ you _ !”

“I actually seem to remember you calling me  _ Master _ when I was--”

“Jon, stop! Shut! Up!” If Jon wasn’t pinning his wrists to the bed, he’d have been pinching the bridge of his nose, but Jon’s strength was yet to waver at all, so he shut his eyes. “I swear, if this is how you’re going to act every time we have sex--!”

“So you admit there’s going to be a second time?” Even with his eyes shut, he could feel Jon’s nose brushing his own. “I thought I was just a  _ midnight companion _ ?” He opened his eyes specifically to glare up at him. Jon’s eyes were alight in mirth, as crystal as always.

“That’s all you will be if you don’t get off!”

Jon smirked. “C’mon, Damian. Just say it.”

“Say what?”

Jon released his wrists, but only to instead cross his arms over his bare chest and lay against him, batting his girlish eyelashes up at him innocently. “Say you love me.” What. His heart stopped, and he knew Jon could hear and feel it, and he did, because he laughed. “D, please, it’s nothing you didn’t say last night.”

“I was drunk.”

“Drunk minds speak sober thoughts.”

“tt”

Damian glanced away, because there was no way he was saying that, not sober at least, and certainly not when he was naked enough already. The bedsheet was all but gone, kept in place only by chance and Damian’s stiff muscles. Any further and Jon would have a field day, he was sure. There was no way he was going to say those words, not unless… “I won’t if I’m the only one who’s gonna say it.” Damian turned his head to the side, where he couldn’t see Jon even out of the corner of his eye.

Jon blinked, lips pursed in surprise. “Oh. Damian?” He didn’t look at him, wouldn’t, but there were fingers under his chin, sweet, gentle, reassuring. The face Jon made when he turned to look was just as soft, no more mirth, just the patented Super Charm, the unintentional kind. He smiled at him. “I love you.” His heart skipped a beat, and Jon was leaning forward, pressing a soft, tender kiss to his lips. Damian closed his eyes, parted his lips, let Jon take the lead again until it felt as though he’d sucked his very consciousness from his kiss. They parted, only an inch, with Jon’s forehead against his.

He broke. “I love you.” It was a whisper, but it was enough for Jon.

* * *

They left the hotel hand-in-hand, fingers entwined. Jon had cleaned up to the best of his limited ability, but there was only so much they could do without a vacuum and a rewind button.

Damian left half a grand on the bed.

“You weren’t answering any of my texts.” Jon said as they walked back to campus. He squeezed his hand. “I went looking and… when I found you…” He knew the feeling. Finding the man you love with somebody else, it was a pain he would never have wished on Jon. “I guess I just kinda lost my temper.”

“Well then,” Damian shifted just the smallest bit, enough that his shoulder would brush with Jon’s. “We should avoid such altercations in the future, particularly with drunk sorority girls.”

Jon shot him a look. “Don’t tell me… Damian, were you--?”

“I don’t see how that matters, now.”

Jon laughed. “You’re right, it doesn’t.” It might have been his imagination, perhaps not, but he could see his cheeks turn pink, and maybe the hand in his own tugged him a little closer. “But um, there won’t be any guys in leather jackets from now on either, right?”

Damian cocked an eyebrow. “Do you even own a leather jacket, Haystack?”

“What? No?”

“Then the hypothetical is moot.” Jon laughed again, twinkling, bright, just like him. Damian hid the smile on his face and hoped he couldn’t hear the way his heart soared. “Jon.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t ever break my heart again.”

The look Jon shot him nearly did the trick all over again, tight lip, eyes that steeped in pain, he could feel him tense. To his surprise, Jon lifted their joined hands to his lips, pressed a soft, genuine kiss to the back of his hand before he set his forehead against his skin. “You have my word.” The gesture was so tender, so  _ him _ . Damian smiled and stopped where they stood, taking his hand from Jon only to cup the back of his neck. Jon blinked down at him in surprise.

“See that you stay true, Beloved.” He pulled him down into a kiss, warm, soft. Jon tilted his head, Damian set his other hand at his chest, and Jon set his warm palm over his fingers. He tasted of salt, but more than that, he tasted of eight years, of time spent together, of the grass stains and bruises of battle. He tasted like the boy he loved, his partner, his friend. Jon smiled into the kiss.


End file.
